You see, these roads carry my journey in their scarred tarmac. It is afternoon where my journey begins. My feet eats the dust & cigarette smoke of other long distanced afternoons. I can almost taste the sluggish season, the pent up energy of bodies struggling to finish the day. These roads call to their bones, the deep marrows of the days before tarmac defiled swamp, ate the old sacred paths of the jungle once fed oracles. So when I wandered, high on palm wine & nuts, shouldering burdens like bleached bones in the sharp claws of the desert, it was not just me who walked those lone days. There was the me first fetched the swamp, the other that first tapped the trees & this weak apparition trundling these new paths. The many me converge as my oldest journey begin again, as I wander all the hells & all the heavens home can be.
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